A Tale of Baldwin: Knoll Cove

By Weston Ford

Baldwin, an immortal wanderer, is charged with upholding the tenants of his ancient order. Dedicated to peace, justice, goodness, and the defense of the innocent, his jaded and cynical view of the world clashes with his idealistic order on the beaches of Knoll Cove. The small hamlet hires him to help defend them from the possible threat of a local raider. Doubtful of the legitimacy of this threat, Baldwin struggles with the battle for the greater good of Knoll Cove. No matter what he chooses, there will be blood in the cove before this is over.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Weston Ford
• Release date: Mar 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310849046

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A Tale of Baldwin:

Knoll Cove

By Weston Ford

A NOTE: This is a story connected to a much larger world and series of events that are to come in the future. Please, enjoy the tale as it is and expect more to come. Thank you for purchasing this novella.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

BALDWIN: BLOOD OF THE COVE

Copyright  2015 by Weston Ford

All rights reserved.

I hate getting in the middle of these things. The monks and the locals rarely have anything in common, other than the fact that they both are victims of Ottmar’s supposed threats. The Serene and the inhabitants of Knoll Cove came to me like so many other clients I’ve had, begging for help. Honestly, they don’t have the coin, but I’m not supposed to sell my services.

Give unto the people freely of flesh and blood. Honor and duty will sustain you.

When you’ve been around for a few fights, people start looking to you to solve all of their problems, especially up north here where law is a southern luxury. I push away from the tavern table and look over at the other denizens of the small, damp tavern that sits at the heart of this miserable little town along the stormy cove. There are yurts and a few trade shops set up along the docks that stretch out to the northern waters of the Pethra Nye. This place is little more than a stopping ground for smugglers trying to avoid the busier ports and the serious trade governments. This far north, you’re lucky to get so much as a constable or a warlord. There’s no law up here except for the one you forge with the iron in your hand. That’s why I like it up here. Less people to answer to, but this isn’t my usual assignment.

The truth is, my superiors pay me to wander the north, looking for trouble and putting it down wherever I can. Mostly I’m just a thorn in the side for bandits, marauders, and those occasional warlords getting ideas of grandeur and imperialism. Mostly I just wander from hamlet to hamlet along the coast, picking up coin at the drop off points. I’ve often wondered who puts the coin purses in the tree stumps and the caves, where I pick it up, but I’m grateful for them. It’s not much, just enough to get me to the next drop point with food in my belly. Enough to keep me satisfied to keep going. It’s easy money. In fact, this will be the first time I’m asking them to pay me for my services in a long time.

I don’t know what brought the monks to this drizzling, raining chunk of rock, but their monastery atop the knoll has given the local villagers nothing but trouble since I’ve been wandering through these parts. In these small towns, new faces are memorized and held accountable for their actions. They watch me like a hawk as I pass through. I, on the other hand, watch those watching me grow older and die. Some of them catch on to what I am, but very few do. To most, I’m a strange mystic wandering these parts or just another sword. The truth is I’m something else, more akin to a watchman than anything else.

Before I can make a clean escape from the tavern, Gossik catches me. He wears a floppy hat that makes him look like a puppet. His red nose and weepy eyes make me wonder what exactly it is that ails him, or if it’s just the cold disagreeing with him. The people around these parts listen to him, so that gives him the modicum of power available in Knoll Cove. I remember when he was just a boy.

Have you thought about our conversation? Gossik asks me with a nervous sort of twitch in his aged voice.

Aye, I tell him bitterly, not drunk enough to have this talk right now.

Will you defend us? He asks me nervously. He glances at the steel on my hip. He’s got that look in his eyes that makes me angry. It’s the look of men who have never held a sword before or stood in a shield wall. It’s an ignorance that infects their gaze, making them think that just any man with a sword is a warrior, that it’s a magic talisman that gives the wielder the strength of the soldier. It’s a look that gets men killed.

I don’t rightly know, I tell him honestly. "The problem, Gossik, is that after I kill Ottmar and